


Finding his way back

by heizl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Cell Phones, Childhood Memories, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Memories, Modern Era, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Reminiscing, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: Two years since Bucky'd found his way back to his Stevie. Five since he weaseled out Hydra's cusps. Yet, normalcy in life was still a concept far lost on him. Bucky still didn't understand how to use a cell phone, let alone why he'd ever need one. Bucky's trying. He is. Sees a psychiatrist once a week to talk about his feelings, sort out his mess of a brain, trying to integrate himself back into society.He goes on dates with Steve (outside) at least a couple times a month, catches up on seventy years worth of lost media and music. Tries to rebuild and recreate a family with their new friends. Something was always missing though.He was jealous that Steve found Peggy. Envious to the point he'd have to throw himself under cold water in the shower to stop seeing red. He wanted that, that same exact miracle to happen to him. Screw everything else; he could watch every season of the Office, learn how to code and sell iPhone apps. Nothing would ever give him the satisfaction of returning back to life like finding his sister would. Maybe that'd be throwing himself back in time, which was the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do — but, he didn't care. He just wanted to see Rebecca.





	1. Restlessness

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Got the idea for this series after reading a comp of the Captain America & Bucky comics, where Bucky and Nat end up reuniting with Rebecca. I'd been thinking over this idea for awhile: "What would happen if Steve and Bucky had found Rebecca?" And so after listening to a bunch of Son Lux and forcing all these ideas to get out of my head, I present to you with this story.
> 
> Everything's already been written and finished (for once) so I'll be updating every Wednesday and Sunday. Tags might change eventually if stuff is added / revised. Might also add a bonus 7th chapter but I'm not sure yet. So far this is 6 chapters long and about 20kish words in total.
> 
> I really liked writing this and am pretty proud of how it came out. So — hope you all enjoy! :- )

* * *

 

 

Sleep use to be one of Bucky's favorite activities, when he could actually force himself into a somewhat of a deep dream state, which was rare to come by nowadays. When shit around him got too rough, he'd use sleep as a coping mechanism to drown out the rest of the world; that's all he did after his mom passed away, bury himself in a Mount Everest of blankets, or, alternatively, wriggle his way under Steve's and pass out on his couch for days on end.

 

But, now, it was like he tried to do everything in his might to _avoid_ sleep for as long as he possibly could. The very thought of lying down made his stomach start to clench up and his throat tighten, because see, Steve sometimes had a rough start before he fell asleep - but he _did_ it. Bucky however, despite being in the warm comfort of Steve and knowing he was safe and secure, was still left alone with his thoughts. And when he was left alone for too long, that's when the hallucinations would start.

 

Like when you're a little kid, you know how sometimes you'd misinterpret the over sized coat that your grandma gave you that's been hanging up in the corner of your closet for six years, as a monster? Or, when it got windy outside and the branches would scratch lightly against the outside shingles and cast elongated shadows through a sliver of moonlight? Your imagination, the same one that kept you entertained by thinking the floor was lava, would torment you and convince you there was danger lurking.

 

That's how Bucky felt whenever he was in the dark, constantly. Except, the coat in the closet wasn't some tickle monster. He'd see the faces of — he didn't know their names, and it wasn't like he even wanted to remember their names, the men that forced him onto cold examine tables and strapped leather belts around his one flesh arm so hard that there'd be red marks for weeks; but, that's who he'd see. Their looming faces, darkened with shadows and gleaming at him with expectant smirks.

 

_Close your eyes, ignore them_ , he'd whisper to himself, out loud. See, he'd seen a scene like this when him and Steve watched American Horror Story; the next day his therapist (which he was still trying to get use to the concept of seeing a therapist, but it was part of his orders; no attempt at recovery and integrating back into life and he'd be put back into Shield's hold, and watched like a lab rat) advised him from watching these types of shows, because she was saying they might increase his rate of nightmares, but he honestly found them comforting. Being able to relate to the torture the characters endured, the murders they found themselves committing.

 

" _Get out! Get out of my head_!”

 

That's where he learned it. When the figures were watching him and growling in his ears and tapping him awake, pulling at him and biting and scratching, he'd fight back. Even if that meant waking up Steve entirely by springing out of bed, it was better than having them pester and torment him.

 

And, that trick actually did work. _Usually_. Until one specific night came. A fear Bucky always had, that was kept in the back of his mind with his lost memories and the scariest figures he learned to lock away and never let out, was that someday his Steve would get sick of the constant war Bucky was having in his head. Get sick of him flipping over a bowl of cereal because his metal spoon tapped the ceramic a bit too loud, or socking Steve clean in the jaw because he came home a bit early and decided to surprise him with a hug from behind (that actually was Steve's fault, and he apologized, because Bucky'd been dozing off to some song on the iPod Steve got for him and had been so disassociated from everything, he hadn't heard Steve come in, or saw him at all for that matter until he abruptly grabbed him. He still felt awful though, of course).

 

He hoped that day would never come, but it still scared him. Horrified him. Terrified him enough that he'd never even open up about it to his therapist.

 

So, the night where his trick didn't work, right. The day had been going so well for him too — him and Steve decided to play hooky and treat themselves to an early anniversary vacation. They never got too many days off, and when they did have a day or two to themselves, they often found it spent in their apartment, ordering takeout (Chinese usually, but when they'd order pizza, Clint who lived a few doors down from them would always barge his way in with Lucky in tow) and catching up seventy years worth of media they'd severely grown behind on.

 

Steve took them to Coney Island. It was a surprise, wouldn't tell him until they were parking the car at a fancier hotel; fancy enough that instead of becoming excited, Bucky started to whine and complain about how much it cost them until Steve threw Bucky onto their freshly made bed and smothered his face with a pillow to get him to shut the hell up.

 

Coney Island brought back a lot of memories for him. Of course, the majority of them were good. Countless birthdays were spent here, weekend outings to the beach the Barnes and Rogers family took together, visits to the nearby aquarium every now and then. They'd gone on quite a few (double) dates there; Annabelle, beautiful blonde and prettiest girl in Bucky's 7th grade math class, swooned her by showing off his near-perfect aim at a game of toss (keyword here: near-perfect. The times he did mess up, Steve wouldn't let him live it down, the snarky shit he was, and _still_ is).

 

They had a productive day; reminisced about childhood memories over a churro while watching the waves splash harder as the hours ticked by. They'd gone on one single ride (not the coaster, never again, Bucky still didn't trust that Steve wouldn't lose his lunch on him), mostly just talked and walked and took a few photos together. At the end of the day, they found themselves stretched out on the bed in their hotel and ordering overpriced room service while they played the N64 they brought with them.

 

Bucky didn't think they'd follow him there, thought he'd finally get a peaceful night of sleep for the first time in... since 1917, he'd suppose. But he was wrong. Very, horribly wrong.

 

" _Wake up, wake up_!" the high pitch voice of a young girl echoed and made his ears ring. The tips of his ears felt like they were set on fire, and that made his eyes immediately flick open; the tip of his nose was smushed against Steve's chest, same position he'd drifted off in. The blond's arms were still holding him, cradling him like a scared child. Being only one month away from Steve's birthday, the lingering air wasn't cold but more so, tolerable. A warm heat that mixed with the air conditioner that'd turned itself off sometime during the night. That made his head feel dizzier, because he couldn't figure out what day or month, or year, he was in at that moment.

 

_"Bucky, come on! You gotta get up, you're gonna be late_ ," there was something tugging on his shirt, the back of his shirt more specifically, and he craned his neck to look behind himself. Nothing there, not even a shadow or dull hallucination. Still heard a voice though, and he still felt like something was there. Now he was just worried the voice, that had a striking resemblance to his younger sister, was actually a little girl ghost...

 

He snickered to himself. Humor, his other coping method. Sometimes that pissed off Steve; be in the middle of an important meeting, sat down with the senate of state, or even the president, and Bucky would be cracking jokes under his breath to deal with the uncomfortableness of the situation. Steve would always pinch him or smack him under the table, which didn't do anything but make him want to be sarcastic even more.

 

Steve softly sighed. His eyes trailed back to the 'slumbering' man. He wasn't breathing as hard now and his darker brows were half furrowed, like he was trying to focus on something. He immediately recognized that look, that very look he'd pull when they'd stay up all night reading comics and Sarah would come into Steve's room unannounced. Steve would throw himself down against the pillows and close his eyes, feigning a heavy sleep. It usually worked, unless Bucky blew their cover by laughing. Which was quite often...

 

"Idiot, I know you're _awake_ ," he thumped the back of his head, a mischievous smirk growing on his freckled face. He still didn't open his eyes, but now Bucky knew he really was awake. Though he still lacked a lot of memories, or well, that was an understatement to say 'a lot'. There were huge gaps and dark periods in his mind; he remembered a lot from being six and playing in the backyard with Steve, picking up the small boy and tossing him in a pile of leaves. He remembered their first shared kiss at fourteen; trapped with Steve in his grandparents bathroom to get a moment alone with him after the ruckus of his annoyingly loud family gathering giving him a massive headache. What started as them cracking jokes about his grandma’s persistent need to wear tomato red lipstick and passing a half-lit cig back and forth suddenly turned into hesitating fingers experimentally trailing up skin and shy, soft kisses.

 

The cigarette fell from Bucky's fingers, rolling down the clawfoot tub they'd been sitting on the brim of. He couldn't remember anymore how exactly they worked up to that moment, or what the thoughts rushing through his mind even were, but he did remember hoisting Steve onto the marble counter of the sink and his slender legs hooked around his hips. Remembered his hair sticking up in unnatural ways as he pushed him against the ugly blue jay wallpaper that Bucky really tried to ignore (god, the way his mind worked was stupid, he couldn't remember his mom's birth date but that bird's horribly drawn face still haunted him to this day). Steve cupped over Bucky's ears, started muttering something to him, which Bucky only yelled in response, " _What_?"

 

By the time someone was knocking on the door, Bucky'd had his head burrowed into Steve's shoulder, both of their bodies shaking with hysterics.

 

He remembered a lot of things about Steve. And, the things he didn't, he tried to force himself to. Everything else was worth forgetting, not him.

 

" _You_ shouldn't be," Steve lulled, sleep thick in his voice. He pulled him closer, so close Bucky almost felt suffocated. He didn't mind though, wasn't complaining in the slightest.

 

"Can't help it."

 

"What's on your mind, sugar?"

 

Steve sucked in his lips, and Bucky knew his expression that he was trying to convey as annoyed and intimidating, must've failed. "Sugar." He repeated, flat and low.

 

"Not a fan?"

 

"Sounds like I'm your middle-aged dame from the fifties."

 

Steve drew a long breath, and made the most over exaggerated expression Bucky'd ever seen. Steve was very expressive, often talking with his hands, and eyebrows for that matter. He loved the way his dimples would form when he genuinely smiled, or the puff of his cheeks and roll of his eyes he'd give when Bucky said something ridiculous, which was often. They also drove him insane though, as in he wanted to oftentimes punch Steve in his obnoxiously white teeth.

 

With his jaw slack and nose scrunched, he asked, "Aren't you though?"

 

"You're lucky I'm too worn out and comfortable to move, Rogers."

 

"Yeah? Why's that?"

 

"Cause I'd be pinning your ass down right now and give you a smack or two."

 

"Kinky."

 

"Jesus," he let out an incredulous huff of air. "Not like _that_."

 

"Mhm, sure." Now with a softer expression, Steve ran his fingers through Bucky's overgrown hair. He'd been needing to get it cut for a few months now but always put it off. "So, returning to my first question. What's up?"

 

"Oh, you know. Just questioning my sanity at," he squinted, trying to make out the blurred red numbers from the bedside alarm, "three in the morning, wondering if I'm hearing shit again or if this room is actually haunted."

 

"Well," Steve cocked his head. Bucky saw his adam's apple move, like he was trying to hold himself back from laughing. So he poked his side, right under the ribs, in the one spot where he knew he was ticklish, which got him snorting. "ain't that a predicament?"

 

"I know, sounds fun, don't it?"

 

"Very. So, what's it saying to you? ' _Come play with us, Bucky_ '."

 

Now it was Bucky's turn to snort without provocation. "No. And I'm not sure if that would be better or worse... I'm gonna go with better. Uh, nah it's Bec I think. Telling me to ' _get up_ '. You remember she'd come into my room every morning, start jumping on the bed so we wouldn't be late for school?"

 

"Our own personal alarm clock."

 

"Yeah. You think she could still be alive? I mean, Peggy was alive and you found her, what if..."

 

"Honey. Was coming here a bad idea?"

 

"No, oh God no. Had a great day, Stevie, really. But I just— I've been talking to my doc about it and brought it up to Maria last week—"

 

"About finding Rebecca?"

 

"About seeing if there's anything out there about her. Now I ain't sayin’ she still is alive, but, it's not improvable. She's, uh, five years younger than me?"

 

"Six."

 

"Right. So, see, Stevie, she could be. What if she's out there somewhere, fuckin' alone and scared with no one to take care of her? Or— Jesus, what if she got married and has a whole family now?"

 

"Oh my _God_. You could be a great uncle."

 

Bucky shivered. "...Fuck." They both crack up.

 

"Stevie, what if that really was her? Trying to communicate with me."

 

"Communicate with you... telepathically?"

 

"Through little girl ghosts!"

 

"Maybe you do need your head examined," Steve knocked on the side of his skull, which got Bucky tugging on his wrist. His earlier statement of being too tired to rough house was quickly extracted because he found himself looking down at Steve, both of his hands wrapped around his. His knees straddled him either side of his hips, and when he looked down at him, he was met with a shit-eating grin that made him want to flip Steve off the bed even more.

 

Once they calmed down, Steve cupped the nape of his sweat slicked neck, pulling Bucky down so he could lay, resting his head on his shoulder. Reminded him of when they were younger, and _Steve_ was the one that’d always been tucked under his chin. Wake up and the kid had shimmied his way on top of Bucky. He wasn’t complaining though, he loved it.

 

"Buck," Steve twirled his split ends, "that really something you want to look into? Cause I can ask Nat too. Shield was hiding shit about you from me for years, probably still are trying to bury things. Really isn't _that_ crazy to think they could be hiding living relatives or whatever too."

 

"Yeah. Yes, Stevie, please. Gonna bother me forever if we don't at least try looking."

 

"Okay, honey," he kissed his forehead. "When we get back home in the evening, I can give Nat a call. Sound good?"

 

Bucky nodded. "I love you."

 

"I love you too. Now, c'mon, you wanna put on a movie or something we can pass out to?"

 

"Like what?"

 

"I unno," Steve shifts and shimmies around, reaching for the controller that’d been long forgotten and lost under the covers. He started flicking through channels, turning down the volume a tad until he let out a small gasp that got Bucky flipping onto his back and pushing himself under Steve’s arm so he laid beside him.

 

"Oh, no way. Would you look at that?"

 

"What is it?" There was a long panning shot of a hotel’s hallways. Ugly cream walls that anyone could recognize paired with a grey blue combo carpet. It was that _exact_ scene, Bucky recognized, as the shot honed in on two small girls donning matching blue dresses. "That's a little..."

 

"Coincidental?"

 

"I was going to say freaky, but, that too."

 

"Okay," Steve again was shimming himself around until they both got comfortable. He kissed the top of Bucky’s forehead, reaching for his hand with a squeeze. “Now let’s settle down, watch this _very_ relaxing movie, and go to bed."

 

 

* * *

 

  



	2. Overconfidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> o·ver·con·fi·dence  
> The quality of being too confident; excessive confidence.
> 
> \------
> 
> Steve was a man of many insecurities, which was pretty unknown to the public. No one really knew about just how uncomfortable Steve was with himself, other than Bucky. He'd heard the worst of it, when Steve would stand in front of the tall mirror in his bedroom, drowning in his hand-me-downs and beg to stay in for the day.
> 
> Overconfident, is how some would describe Steve. Happy with himself, happy with life. Bucky knew otherwise. 
> 
> And, much like the blond, Bucky had his own insecurities and worries, and problems, that weren't as easy for him to hide. Like, how his mind couldn't stop focusing on what he'd told Steve a few days ago; ever since the idea had left Bucky's lips, that was all he could think about. Was his sister alive? What would she even look like, or, would she recognize him? Would she be mad at Bucky for leaving her?
> 
> Steve has some information about the situation, and so Bucky was going to try to take on that word everyone used to describe Steve; try to pretend like he was happy with himself and confident, because every situation he got thrown into was more and more uncomfortable than the last.

* * *

 

 

Not even an hour since they'd been back at their place and Bucky was already bored out of his mind. Hanging off the side of their couch maybe wasn't the smartest idea, if the dizziness Bucky was starting to feel from the blood rushing to his head accounted for anything. But it gave him an interesting view of the world at least. Like, now Steve was hanging off the ceiling like a bat, and _that_ was pretty entertaining.

 

When Steve talked on the phone, Bucky wasn't sure if he realized he did this, but he'd pace. Walk into their bedroom and out again, stand around their kitchen and brush his fingertips over their coffee mugs, trail down the faucet and fridge handle. Normally he didn't have that hard of a time sitting still, but Bucky assumed it was speaking that made him a bit antsy. The high school they'd gone to was, a bit progressive considering they'd grown up in New York. Focused more on the arts side of things; Bucky still had a pal in Indiana he'd pen to every so often, and while they had electives like Russian and woodworking, Washington had more of a variety, offering co-ed sewing classes (outside of home economics), drama outside of just 101 and basic improv, and, specifically, creative writing.

 

Creative writing was a mandatory class, but, for those who enjoyed writing and possibly wanted to go into that as a career in the future, they offered extended variations of the class. About once a month, their school would hold an assembly to award select students for their ' _outstanding writing_ '. Steve wound up with this award all of five times, and he _hated_ it. Oh, the second they'd call his name (and he always feared it would be called), Bucky would have to practically shove him up there on stage. The first time he won, that is what he did; Bucky, with a hand gripped either side of Steve's shoulders, led him up to the small set of stairs that went onto the stage platform.

 

Why did he hate it so much, and why is this at all relevant? Because, what came with the small certificate they'd hand you, and sometimes a brand new book or two provided by their local library's overstock, was having to read out loud whatever the hell you'd written in front of the entire school. So if you'd written poetry about some pretty flowers, you'd be subjected to torture as a group of three hundred something teenagers laugh under their breath at you. Given, no one ever laughed at Steve, and if Bucky had caught anyone snickering, he would've sliced their tongue out, but Steve hated it. He'd do the same thing when he'd have to recite back what he squinted at on paper; occasionally stutter over his words, rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, nervously look off the stage back at Bucky. It was ironic, because he'd always write about politics, and despite his strong words, his voice was nothing less of pathetic, and adorable at that.

 

So, now as Bucky watched Steve prancing around as he animatedly talked to Natasha on the phone, he found himself grinning, lost in his own little world until he was met with a pair of very close, studying blue eyes.

 

"What're you smirking about?"

 

"Just thinking about, uh— remember at Washington how you had to read all those long ass essays on stage?"

 

Bucky could see the color draining from Steve's cheeks as his head fell. "Why'd you have to remind me of that?"

 

"Cause, you were cute!" Bucky quickly retorted, stretching his arm out to pinch his warm cheek. "You were always so nervous up there, would pace around, like you did just now."

 

"I was nervous because I don't like that much attention on me."

 

"Don't like that much attention on you... yet you paraded around show after show in incredibly tight tights."

 

"That wasn't the same."

 

"How so?"

 

"I was trying to make a difference."

 

"I unno, the stuff you read— I remember you did this, basically a short PSA about bullying. You started talking about how you'd been bullied your whole life, since you came to public school, and if you didn't have a loving mom, or loving best friend," and then he made quotations with his fingers with emphasis around the word, "aka your secret _boyfriend_ since you were fifteen, you maybe wouldn't of been alive. That was pretty powerful, y'know. Said how not all kids were as lucky as you, to have that support. Remember Ms. Patterson was tearing up a bit."

 

Steve's eyes darted away. He scratched the back of his head, now too much color returning to his complexion. "She was _not_."

 

"Sure she was. All I'm saying, Stevie, is it's okay to admit you're a whore for attention every now and then."

 

"Oh my God, I'm _not_ though!" he playfully smacked Bucky's chest.

 

"No?" Bucky scrambled to his feet, ungracefully flinging himself off the couch (he could see Steve roll his eyes). Making his way to their short coffee table, crawling on his knees, he had to hold back the giddy giggles that wanted to escape. He picked up a Times magazine; Bucky remembered the first time Steve had appeared on the cover of Times. 1943, he'd been out with Dugan and Jim to cruise around town when a newsstand caught his eye. Now, he didn't know that was Steve at the time, but he couldn't help but always feel... a certain kind of connection to the photos of Captain America. There was a familiarity he felt when he looked at the cover of the magazine, something that comforted him about the blues of his eyes. Was always funny because, the more he saw of Captain America and the few movies he'd watched with the boys, he always thought the guy was attractive physically (would be lying if he said his face hadn't popped up while he was quickly trying to rub one out early in the morning occasionally), but he always tried to stop himself from thinking the guy was too good looking. Wanted to stay true to Steve, wanted to remind himself Steve was the only one for him. Little did he know that _was_ , and is, his Stevie.

 

He held up the magazine to Steve. There he was again, on the cover, donning some impeccably tailored navy blue suit with a small pin of the US flag attached to his right lapel. In black bold to his left read ‘ _Captain America's love story that's worth a century’._

 

After the news that the notorious terrorist and murderer, known as 'the Winter Soldier' was making a complete 180 transformation to return back to the domestics of normality (as normal as you can get while battling extraterrestrial invaders on the weekend and being assigned super secret spy missions during the week), every news channel and major publisher wanted to get the inside scoop from none other than Steve Rogers himself. Which, this did nothing but put an immense amount of stress on Steve.

 

Bucky turned himself in to Shield; he'd had enough of the runaway lifestyle. He was tired, his feet were sore, and he hadn't had a proper meal in years. He'd spent the very last of his money on a plane ticket from Serbia to New York City, and that's when he found himself at the Avenger's doorstep, hands behind his head as he shouted he surrendered. The only thing he asked in return of his surrender, was for them to tell Steve he was back. But, that's exactly what they _didn't_ do.

 

He was sent to a psychiatric institute in Manhattan, where he was closely monitored for a month. Only then had Steve finally heard of the news, through Clint or Natasha he wasn't sure, but it wasn't from Fury himself. Bucky knew he looked like shit; he was frail and thin and pale, his hair was an overgrown matted mess, his stubble now bordering a full on beard. If he hadn't of had the giveaway robot arm, he was sure he'd be mistaken for another crazy homeless person.

 

Steve didn't know how to react at first. He wasn't allowed to talk to Bucky. Instead, Bucky spent most of his days tied down to a bed or doped up on a cocktail of tranqs and anti-psychotics (which they soon learned didn't work, what with his super soldier serum and all). When he was finally allowed to have direct eye contact with him, they didn't share many words. They didn't hug, touch. Just stared. Bucky was on edge that everything was a setup, that Steve was some employed actor and this was a big ruse Hydra had made to lure him back in somehow.

 

So, that's the point all the news places were contacting Steve. Shield made the final decision to release the information that Bucky was in their possession and getting better, undergoing treatment, etc, however they worded it. Much less actual treatment and more so Bucky trying to distract himself and count down the days until he could be moved to the towers and live with Steve, finally, like he'd always wanted.

 

Steve always turned down talking about — not about Bucky, because his name always slipped out of his mouth, and sometimes on Rachel Ray or whatever talk show he was on that week, he'd share a story or two from their Brooklyn adventures. He wasn't ashamed of Bucky, no, he wanted to show him off to the world and proudly announce him as his partner (also something he hadn't done yet), it just never felt like the right time. Two years later and four months into the slow treatment that would, eventually, rid Bucky of all the jumbled shit Hydra had left in his mind, that they traveled to Wakanda for twice a month, Steve felt like it was time to open up about— well, their story. Their chaotic story that was nothing less of something you'd read in a cheesy, dramatic romance novel.

 

There was a six page spread, of just Steve talking about Bucky (and a few sentences from Bucky too). It was an overwhelming day to say the least. Times Magazine sent a crew of journalists and photographers to their apartment. Set up a couple of light boxes and backdrop for a quick and easy photo shoot then sat down with them on their embarrassingly worn down couch. By the time they left, Bucky needed a breather. He was trying to cut back on how much he smoked, but Steve gave him an exception that day.

 

"What's this then?" he shook the magazine in front of Steve, springing to his feet the second he tried to snatch it out of his hands. Jumping back onto the couch, holding the magazine high in the air (high enough to smack his knuckles into the ceiling, that is), he smirked down at Steve. "Mister 'I don't like attention' got his face plastered all over a magazine seen by millions of people."

 

Steve put both his hands on his hips, and now Bucky could tell he was pouting. "I did that for _us_ , dimwit. Not just me being 'hey, I'm Captain America, look at me please!'"

 

"It's okay, Stevie. I think it's cute," he stepped back onto the floor, creaking under his foot. Settling the magazine aside, he took another step towards Steve, placing one hand on his shoulder and another to cup behind his neck. "Don't mind when it's my attention you're begging for."

 

Steve met his lips, shaking his head. "Well, I do like it when you pay attention to me."

 

"You know I always am."

 

"Uh huh. Probably won't be anymore after next week, when we get you that phone."

 

"Stevie, ain't like I got anyone else to talk to other than you. Not gonna just be texting myself and taking selfies all day long."

 

"There's a lot more you can do on a phone than call people and take pictures, Buck."

 

"Oh?" he quirked a brow.

 

"Mhm, exactly. Anyways, I talked to Nat."

 

"I know, I was here."

 

Steve pinched Bucky's earlobe, tugging him so he could kiss his cheekbone. "Talked to her about Bec."

 

"Let me guess: 'Sorry Buck, but that was almost eighty years ago, and you're a moron if you think there's any chance she'd still be alive today. You need to start living in reality, you dumb dumb idiot.' Am I close?"

 

"There's a lead. Nat says there's a 'Rebecca Barnes' checked into a long-term care facility here in Brooklyn for Alzheimer's."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is here! Also, going to be updating the chapter count to 7 now. :- )  
> Excited for the next update, I think chapter four is honestly my favorite (though the next one is pretty silly too haha)


	3. Technophobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tech·no·phobe  
> a person who fears, dislikes, or avoids new technology.
> 
> \---
> 
> Bucky didn't see the need for a phone. Why'd he need a phone if he could just have Steve attached at his hip 24/7? Except, guess he couldn't because Steve was a busy man, and while Bucky was also a busy man himself, he had more free time on his hands than Steve ever did.
> 
> He really did put up a protest. Tried to lock himself in the bathroom so Steve couldn't drag him to the stupid phone store. Didn't work though, because that's where he found himself— standing in a stuffy store too early in the morning, annoyed and against his will.

* * *

 

"So, uh," Bucky uncomfortably shifted his weight onto his left leg. A quarter past noon and Steve had already dragged him out to get their day started. He was grumpy, wanted to down a cup of steaming hot caffiene, and do nothing else except crawl under their covers (without Steve. He didn't deserve to go back to bed since he was the bad man that woke him up).

 

Their first stop was the phone store, just like he'd been hyping up. However, it was apparent the excitement was purely one sided because Bucky could care less about having a goddamn phone. He really didn't have any use for it, except to maybe send Steve a couple of bugging texts every now and then while he was out on a mission, shoot a few of those 'emoji' emoticon things to Clint when Steve was too busy.

 

He ran a finger across the already smudged screen of a golden iPhone. Steve swatted his hand away, and for the eighth time that day warned him to stop getting his fingerprints over everything, but he couldn't help it. Nasty habit of his, to pick up anything he found interesting (and parade it in Steve's face), and get his grubby little paws over anything he passed by. Still never changed as he found himself picking up tablets and flipping them around, asking a million questions a minute to Steve, who had zero answers _to_ his questions, and staring at the expensive prices of rubber phone covers.

 

"How do you even use one of these things? I mean, I've used yours a coupla times but," he glanced at the phone Steve held in his hands. The thing wasn't like the others, a flat screen and nothing else. Steve's phone, well, it was clunky, paint chipped on the edges and a small crack center of the glass. While it was a full screen, it also had an actual keyboard that slid out. Couldn't really access the internet, took shoddy quality pictures, and it was a lot smaller than all these newer models too.

 

"Yours ain't like any of these. How do you even turn them on?" Bucky was again reaching to pick up another phone, this time read 'Samsung' engraved in silver, but Steve quickly redirected him with a shove to the back that kept him walking by.

 

"Honey," Steve sighed against the exposed skin on the back of his neck. He could hear him stifling his laughter, felt his fingers grabbing for his own until they entangled and he was craning his neck to meet Steve's gaze. "Why don't you share all of your— _wonderful_ questions with the employees here? I know about as much as you do."

 

Though he'd been back nearly two years in society, he still really didn't know his way around technology much. There'd been times, when him and Tony were still speaking (if you could ever call it that, it's not like they were ever friends, and now they'd never be anything more than enemies) that he'd try to study what he was doing. Spent at least a good full day in his lab, spinning around one of his old office chairs and watching as Tony soldered together a new chest piece.

 

His lab was, well, full of fun toys and science experiments. He had, at least, three monitors, which he'd warned were _only_ for him and his work (but Bucky always dreamed of breaking his way in and playing a bit of Counter Strike; ironic how FPS made him feel strangely calm).

 

Now, him and Steve owned a laptop. Wasn't the greatest thing in the world, made a worrying sound when it booted up, but it turned on and he could check his email (that were full of spam and cat videos Steve would link him), watch a few of the shows he'd found himself enamoured with (including, but not limited to, _Star Trek_ , _Stranger Things_ , and _Dance Moms_ ), and sometimes play a game or two. Him and Steve figured out how to download a few emulators of classic arcade games, also included some Atari and Sega Genesis games.

 

Bucky knew how to use Google, and though he didn't have any social media himself (also didn't see the need for that if he physically saw the only people he talked to on a regular basis), he knew what they were.

 

They also had a television, again, nothing fancy but it worked. Though they never used it for much other than the news and background noise when it grew too quiet at night. But, aside from that and his iPod, he didn't know how anything else worked. Nat had one of those tablet things, which she'd sometimes bring with her to meetings. She used it to take notes, and damn, she could move those fingers quick. Bucky guessed if he ever tried typing on one of those, he'd probably get a single word out per every five minutes. He wasn't a great typer on the laptop either, let alone when he took typing classes on a damn typewriter back in high school.

 

Bucky tried to keep his voice in a whisper, leaning into Steve's side as a man matching his own height, with darkened blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, walked by them. "They're gonna think I'm dumb cause I know jack shit about these things," he flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

 

"Buck, no they aren't. I'm sure they get loads of these kinda questions every day, by uh—" Bucky cut him off to finish with, "what, Steve? By _old people_?"

 

"We _are_ old, buddy."

 

"Not _that_ old."

 

"You're a hundred and six."

 

"And I look damn good for my age, don't you think?"

 

"Christ, shut up," Steve was about to push Bucky's cheek, his fingers parted, but he'd caught his wrist too soon. He wasn't exactly fond of displaying his affection for Steve in public, just because he still had a lingering fear of... feeling like they were doing something illegal and would immediately get thrown into the looney bin for being themselves openly, and also it was mildly uncomfortable to show _any_ kind of affection in public, but he was trying to become more adjusted to it. Remind himself that it was okay now to give him a kiss on the cheek, or that he could embrace Steve and nothing bad would happen. If Clint could give Natasha a short kiss when they were out on a double date, why couldn't he do the same?

 

So he dragged Steve's arm back and pecked his laughing, parted lips; he was close enough to see the small wink Steve rewarded him with, muttering to him, "you do though, not gonna lie."

 

"I know it. And, for the record, you do too, Stevie."

 

Steve wiggled his brows. " _You_ know it."

 

Right as Bucky went to smack his lower back (okay, he was really aiming for his ass but he chickened out), that same ponytailed man approached them. Expectantly looking between the two men, Bucky straightened his posture with a heavy inhale that got his chest to puff a bit too much. He gave Steve a small squeeze, which was reciprocated, so Bucky squeezed back tighter, which was also reciprocated and the back and forth nature of their squeezing and tightening continued until Steve elbowed him in the side, sternly saying, "That's enough."

 

"What the hell're you lookin’ at?" Bucky had managed to get out before Steve was clapping his hand over Bucky's big, loud mouth, sharply exhaling through his flaring nostrils. His fault though for bringing him here  _without letting him have at least one damn cup of coffee first._

 

"Sorry." Goody two shoes Steve always was. While there was a mean bone or two in his body, plain rudeness was a trait unfamiliar to him. Always too kind for his own good, probably the cause of why he had so many broken noses. Bucky always kept a bag of frozen peas in their freezer specifically for Steve's black eyes.

 

"Not a problem," this guy's unphased expression unnerved him. Bucky on the other hand knew he could be rude, often times cold and dismissive of anyone that wasn't Steve. His dad sat him down one day after they'd gotten back to his place with new scuffs on their knees and bruises on their knuckles. George (and Bucky was glad he finally remembered his own father's name, which was absent to him for... Steve was the one that'd mentioned his father by his first name) sent Steve to go sit in the living room with Rebecca, gave them a pack of cards and said he needed to have a 'man to man' talk with 'James'.

 

Bucky flinched before the talk even started. A lot of, " _When are you going to learn that you can't just think about yourself, James? The world doesn't revolve around you, or Steve. Respect others and treat them how you want to be treated_ ." Which Bucky sarcastically replied, " _they treat me like shit, why should I act any different to 'em_?"

 

George sighed, leaning his back against the wall opposite of Bucky. The younger brunet was sitting on top of the toilet, kicking his legs and avoiding any eye contact with his dad.

 

" _Would you treat Steve with disrespect_?"

 

" _No_."

 

" _Would you ever hit Steve_?"

 

" _Not unless he was being an annoying brat_ ," to which his dad cleared his throat and Bucky rolled his eyes, licking his lips. " _No, of course not_."

 

" _Treat others how you treat him. Whatever you can use as inspiration_."

 

"Is there anything I can help you guys with? I didn't want to bother you if you were just looking, but I've watched you circle the store three times now and it's been at least an hour since you walked in..."

 

Bucky stuck his tongue out; he could see Steve watching him, but really, he was to blame for keeping his hand there. He didn't need to be silenced like a baby. He could control himself, sort of, and force himself to be moderately pleasant. Er, pleasant beginning _after_ he licked the back of Steve's palm, which got him visibly cringing as he lowered his hand, nonchalantly rubbing it against his jeans.

 

"Yeah, actually, we were supposed to make a quick stop here to get phones, but," he gestured to Bucky, "he's been stalling because he's too embarrassed to admit he doesn't know how to use a smartphone."

 

"Awh, _Steve_ ," Bucky hissed, scratching at his chin to distract himself from the urge of wanting to topple Steve over.

 

The other man shook his head with a soft, sympathetic chuckle. He waved them in the direction of a display housing about twenty different phones. "Nothing to be ashamed of, especially with how rapidly technology is changing. Trust me, I still don't have the hang of it all yet. My mom had to show me how to operate one of those Apple watches."

 

"Apple... watch? What's that?"

 

"Oh," he looked back at Bucky, raising his arm and pointing to his wrist. Looked like a normal watch, though not like the fancy ones Steve found himself collecting whenever they'd get a bit of extra spending fun money. But when he tapped on its blank surface with a nail, the thing lit up to display an abundance of notifications; a photo of a woman with her arms outstretched standing atop a hill on Instagram, then with a swipe, revealed a Tweet with some crude joke (that Bucky snorted at, which got Steve shaking his head with a half smile). "Basically like a mini computer on your wrist. You can answer phone calls, check and send messages, go on Instagram and Facebook, etcetera."

 

"That's like the kinda stuff we always dreamed about when we thought of the future, huh, Stevie. Though there ain't any working flying cars yet. Guess Howard was trying his best at that."

 

"Who would've thought," now it was Steve's turn to pick up a demo phone (with a mocking, " _Don't touch that_!" from Bucky), showing the small device to Bucky, "this would be a phone. I mean, computers back then took up an entire room. I remember the first time Howard and Peggy introduced me to—" he abruptly cut his words short. "Sorry, almost went off on a tangent there."

 

Another  _shared_ bad habit of theirs. They often found themselves caught up in reminiscing about old memories in the midst of conversations with others. Sam would be talking about his mom's banana bread before Steve and Bucky were shifting the conversation into, " _You remember that time when..."_ Annoying, most of their friends found it. Sam sometimes would play along by adding, " _No, I don't"_ which got them to shut up, yes, but made everything incredibly awkward as there'd be nothing but a silence for them to return to now.

 

Nat and Clint had learned to tune it out and not go along with it, after making that mistake themselves the first time. Best option was to let them ride out the nostalgia train until they drifted back down to earth from that little place they'd always travel to, that was just Steve and Bucky's and only made sense to them; sometimes they felt like they could communicate telepathically, understanding each other in ways no one else ever could. Was almost easier for them to communicate in blinks and head nods than words (which was helpful on missions, oh boy was it).

 

When it came to strangers though, they never expected anyone to know who they were (people usually recognized Steve, was rare if they didn't), but they didn't want to  _assume_ and come across as 'arrogant assholes', Steve would always say. So whenever Steve (Bucky didn't feel the same way) was about to go off on an old timey rampage, he felt embarrassed. 

 

"No, no. I get it, pretty crazy what a phone can do nowadays. I'm _still_ impressed and I grew up with this stuff."

 

"So, uh, what _can_ they, um, _do_?"

 

"What are you planning to use it for? Business, talking to your friends, watching Netflix?"

 

"You can watch shows on that?" Bucky's forehead creased. Wifi itself was a weird concept to Bucky; dial-up made more sense, because you're plugged into something and, its continuously being transferred into that device, but Wifi seemed like borderline witchcraft. Now you can watch movies on a tiny handheld device? Sometimes, he didn't mind being in the future that much (though, that was only sometimes because he still had his days of loathing and longing for the period they were supposed to have grown old in).

 

"Yep. Watch all of your favorite shows and Youtubers, listen to music, play games. A lot of companies are trying to bring their games to mobile now, like Nintendo. You like Animal Crossing?"

 

"Animal _what_?"

 

Steve slung his arm around Bucky's shoulders, pulling him into his side with a sudden yank. Of course he still missed his little Stevie, the one he could haul into his arms and carry around like he weighed about as much as a feather, but he also liked the comfort and security that came with Steve being taller than him. Took away the constant worry Bucky had if anyone were to ever mug them; he could fend for himself, fend for Steve, but he was still a slender guy himself. He wasn't made of rocks or anything, unlike Steve was now.

 

"Buck's never used a smartphone before, but, honestly," Steve pulled that clunky, and Bucky now realized, horribly outdated phone from his pocket, "this is the only one I've used. Was advised to get this because... well, doesn't matter anymore _why_ , but I've had it for close to five years now."

 

"Oh, jeez. Alright, definitely in need of an upgrade then. And, you sir, welcome to the world of smartphones."

 

 

* * *

 

"Steve!" Bucky called out from their bed. Ever since they'd gotten home, he'd been glued to the screen of his new toy, just what Steve feared. He felt like a kid on Christmas; giddy from getting something he'd never played with before, excited to learn all of its features and show off his knowledge to Steve, and, also full of anticipation to start spamming Steve with text after text after he left for the rest of the night. He wasn't one to pester Steve, usually, when he was called to the towers late at night, but this time felt like an exception. The thought of texting him while he's supposed to be paying attention to the governor speaking at a board meeting got him smiling something wicked.

 

" _What_ , honey?" Steve peeked his head in from the doorway. He was in the middle of zipping up a light hoodie; navy blue, complimented his baggy black sweatpants. Steve occasionally did dress up, wore nicely tailored suits outside of just photoshoots, but he honestly thought that casual athleisure style (Nat said that's what they call it now) matched him. Growing up, he was the one to always wear loose fitting shirts and baggy slacks. Wore a nice button up every now and then, but kept the top two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sides slightly untucked.

 

"You have to scram already, or can I talk to you for a minute?"

 

"We can talk," he let out a soft sigh, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded against his chest. "If you put that thing down though."

 

"Put it down if you c'mere," he pat the open space next to him, not glancing up from his bright screen. And, he didn't have to as the mattress dipped and his phone was ripped from his hands, strong arms wrapping around his torso instead. Steve dragged him closer, twisting him so they met eye to eye, tips of their noses brushing.

 

"Alright. I'm here, so, talk to me."

 

"Only because you asked _so_ nicely," he leaned forward, kissing him. "Have you heard anything else about Bec yet?"

 

"Buck," Steve cupped his hand over his, "we're still not even sure it's her."

 

"But, you said her last name was Barnes. How the hell would there be another Rebecca Barnes in her nineties in Brooklyn?"

 

"There probably isn't. I'm really hoping it is her, but, sweetheart, we don't know yet."

 

"Can we go visit her...?"

 

"Nat advised me we shouldn't do anything yet until she looks into it more. In case it's," his lashes fluttered for a moment, "a trap or something."

 

"Okay."

 

"Promise I'll ask her more about it today, okay?"

 

Bucky nodded. "Thanks, Stevie. You're the best."

 

"No, _you_ are," he ruffled his fingers through Bucky's hair. "Gotta get going now. I'll see you in a few hours. Have fun with," he handed him back his phone, "this. And, make sure you eat something. Easy to lose track of time on those things."

 

"Alright, Stevie. Go."

 

"Love you."

 

"Love you too."

 

And at the sound of the front door closing, Bucky flicked back on his phone and opened up what he'd been doing prior; decorating virtual cakes in a game that was clearly designed for kids, but he didn't care, because he'd be lying if he said he wasn't highly entertained.

 

* * *

 


	4. Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> re·bel·lion
> 
> The action or process of resisting authority, control, or convention.  
> \---
> 
> Sometimes being the partner of Captain America, and not just Steve Rogers, is taxing. Attend a couple benefits a month, go to a gallery opening here and there, stand off to the side as you watch Steve pose for photos with a girl that has a massive case of hover hand. Taxing, and annoying.
> 
> Bucky knew though, no matter all the people that also went to these exhibits or bumped into Steve on the street, none of them shared the memories he did with Steve. None of them knew what he sounded like when he really laughed, laughed so hard milk would come out of his nose (okay, that only happened once in fifth grade), or that secret smile he'd only keep for Bucky, wouldn't even allow to be photographed.
> 
> Still, it was tiring. Sometimes he got jealous that the world knew who he was and he wasn't just his anymore. His Stevie only for Bucky to know about and cherish. 
> 
> The first time that he didn't downright hate an exhibit was when they went to NYU's Grey gallery and stumbled across a room full of photos— photos of them and their family. And Steve shares a memory with Bucky that's just theirs, and theirs only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter is from Steve's POV since I sort of wrote it first and then remembered the series was supposed to be from Bucky's POV, woops. Think it works well though haha...
> 
> This idea for this chapter was based off of [this photo](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tattooed_sailor_aboard_the_USS_New_Jersey.jpg) that just made me think of Steve and Bucky. Plus, I love tattoos, have them, and love writing about them lmao

* * *

 

 

"How'd they even find half this stuff?"

 

It wasn't uncommon for museums to hold pop up exhibits for Captain America, or the other Avengers, especially when the month of July came around. Even though it wasn't quite Steve's birthday yet, two and a half weeks away, places were already gearing up to pay tribute to America's favorite Captain. Every year the Smithsonian created a big display for Steve; a wall that people could write on, sending him well wishes for his birthday and the future. Sometimes people left gifts too, or donated bouquets of flowers.

 

They were always invited to preview these collections before they were open to the public. Couldn't always _attend_ them, and sometimes didn't want to because more than half the times they'd go to these things they'd come home a wreck and have restless sleep full of nightmares. But, this newest show was held at New York University's Grey Art Gallery, which was too close that if they skipped out on it, it'd be considered rude. And Stevie went on this whole rant about how they shouldn't be rude and yadda yadda, Bucky wasn't paying attention until he said, “ _Buck, are you_ _even listening to me_?”

 

Plus, it felt sort of like an obligation to go since that was Steve's school after all. He went to NYU from ‘36 to ‘40; he'd scored himself a pretty nifty scholarship and finally gave in to rooming with Bucky to save costs on living. Those were the years Bucky constantly took up extra shifts and any odd job he could find, to help buy Steve his supplies and books. Bucky never wanted to go to college himself, but hell if he was going to sit in the sidelines and watch Steve struggle to afford a new sketchbook even.

 

Everything was okay at first. Bucky was incredibly tired, but he'd always come home to a smiling face of the blond he treasured and lay in bed with that same smile beaming back at him. Their apartment was small, the wallpaper was peeling and there was a water stain on the ceiling that looked like his creepy ex-neighbors face, but it worked. Kept them sheltered, had a bath and a few windows that overlooked the streets. They tried to make it theirs and leave their dent behind (which they did, left a few literal dents in the wall by the time they moved out. Woops.)

 

And then, that glowing honeymoon phase of excitement came crashing down when Sarah died.

 

Bucky was the first to hear about it; early morning on the docks and he'd already been called into his bosses office. Of course his first reaction was panic, because his brain immediately jumped to the assumption that he did something wrong. Or, worse, someone had seen him and Steve standing too close, or that idiotic move he'd made of kissing his forehead a few days ago when they made their way back from a bar, quarter past midnight.

 

“ _Steve Rogers’ your roommate, ain't he?”_ his boss, a semi-balding man in his forties, said as he let out a puff of smoke.

 

_“Y-yeah_?” Bucky remembered he stammered out, and he could still feel the nervousness he was feeling then to this day.

 

He nodded, and then he was gesturing towards the phone on his desk, handing him the receiver as he excused himself from the room. Great. That made his fears only solidify.

 

Steve had been in the middle of a lecture when Bucky ran through the doors and ungracefully tripped over seats as he made his way over to Steve. He was out of breath and bright red in the face, apologized as he yanked the protesting Steve outside.

 

He didn't get it at first, started scolding Bucky for making a scene until he cupped his face, taking that risk, and pulled him closer, whispering, “ _She's gone, Steve. She passed this morning. She's— this is fucked._ ”

 

Bucky took Steve home that day and didn't go back to work. He was crying so loud that his teacher came outside and asked what was wrong because everyone inside the lecture hall could hear him. Bucky summed it up by saying it was a 'family emergency’ and Steve's professor nodded,  understanding.

 

School served as a good distraction, at _first_. Because then it turned into a method of torture, when Steve would force himself to pull all nighters and paint the same damn line over and over again, insisting it wasn't _perfect_. He almost flunked his first year from the amount of absences he received, but thankfully the Dean wasn't a heartless bastard and had compassion for him.

 

So when his graduation came after years that felt like centuries themselves, Bucky couldn't help but get choked up and be extremely overjoyed. He was always proud of Steve, had been proud of him since the day they met and he stood up against a bully twice his size for pulling a girl's hair on the playground.

 

His mom and sister came to his graduation too, sat next to Bucky and he could see his mom tearing up. She loved Steve as much as he did, always welcomed him into the Barnes’ household and to all their family gatherings.

 

When he'd been able to stand next to Steve again, after the ceremony was over, all he wanted to do was bundle Steve in his arms and kiss him, hard and long. But, he couldn't. Couldn't even hold his hand like he knew Steve wanted to (everyone was so busy talking amongst themselves that they couldn't see Steve brushing his fingers down Bucky's palm or holding onto his wrist).

 

His mom _insisted_ they go out for late lunch, and since his mom was the number one chatty Cathy of the family (with Bucky tying in second place with his aunt), it took _hours_ before they were back at their place and Steve had his arms wrapped around Bucky's neck as he lead him towards their bedroom and slammed the door. The wait was worth it at least. Bucky sarcastically remarked that was his graduation gift, and he _believed_ him at first.

 

Idiot deserved a lot more than a blowjob in a stuffy bedroom that smelt like musty smoke. He surprised him the next day with a trip to the aquarium and a fancy dinner at a place that charged far too much for a slice of chicken with a side of beans, but, anything was worth it for Steve.

 

The way the gallery was set up, was that each section was split into different rooms, every new display hidden behind walls so it was like a surprise when you stumbled across it. Then, near the far back of the museum was a room set up with collapsible walls.

 

Bucky lingered around in one of the areas for a few more minutes before he dragged Steve with him towards that area in particular. Entering inside, it was set up like a dark room. Strung across the walls were long pieces of twine with clothespins, holding up a plethora of photographs. The more distorted ones, Bucky could tell, were from Sarah's photo books. Black and white and sepia pictures of them as children, splashing in puddles and bundled up for the cold of winter as him and a very tiny Steve built a snowman.

 

"I don't know, Buck. Maybe your mom donated them to someone. Uh, a collector even."

 

"My mom," he breathed, daring to stroke his finger down the edge of a curled over photo. He cautiously looked at Steve before he did though. No one else was in the room, but he was still unsure if he was allowed to touch anything there, even though everything technically belonged to them. "Jesus, I wonder what she thought— told her son was dead, and her," he bumped Steve with his elbow, "basically second son was gone too."

 

Steve pulled Bucky into his side, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, making the fabric of his coat ride up. Though it was a pretty humid day (but, not as hot as it could've been), Bucky still preferred to wear sweaters and jackets. Made him feel more comfortable when his arm was hidden from the world, hidden from anyone but Steve. Nowadays he preferred to wear a lot of denim and, occasionally leather, which sometimes became a bit unbearable in the summer heat.

 

"She was probably glad that we went together at least."

 

"Yeah. If only," and before Steve even had the option to ask further, Bucky was pointing at one photo in particular, pulling Steve further into the room. This time he did touch it, pulled it off the wall entirely. "Oh my _God_."

 

"What?" Steve snatched it from his hands before he burst into a fit of laughter, Bucky taking it back from him. He looked it over — it was a photo of them at the beach, Bucky sitting on a towel with Rebecca to his side. He remembered Steve had taken the photo. He'd begged Bucky to bring his camera with them on the outing, even though he really didn't want to risk damaging it from... if it got wet, it'd be ruined just like that. Of course though, he gave in.

 

It was the first time he'd gone out in public shirtless since... he honed in on his left shoulder (which gave him an aching ping of nostalgia when his mind immediately hyper focused on the feeling of cooled metal brushing against the cotton of his shirt). A patch of five stars, tattooed forever into his skin. By _Steve_.

 

"I— I can't believe we did that."

 

"Me too," Steve said breathlessly.

 

"I don't really remember it, but," he tapped his nail against himself in the photo, "you did a good job at least."

 

"I was so scared about messing up, Buck. Seriously."

 

"You remember it?" he looked towards Steve curiously, half consciously hanging the picture back up on the wall.

 

"Like it was yesterday. Think it's so ingrained in my mind 'cause I was nervous I was gonna fuck up your skin forever."

 

"Guess it wouldn't of matter anyways, cause," he scrunched his nose, "y'know. Anyways, tell me. Love it when you tell me bedtime stories."

 

"Okay," he gave Bucky another squeeze, moving them to another section in the room. "Well, it all started because, once you got an idea in your head, you were too stubborn to ever give up on it. Once you got your mind decided on something, that was final. You weren't gonna stop 'til you got what you wanted. You know, you wanted me to do my initials at first."

 

" _Oh_ _man_. You should've gone with that!"

 

Steve sighed, his mouth falling open as he stared down Bucky. " _No_."

 

* * *

 

**May 21st 1935**

 

 

"Jerk, sit _still_!"

 

"It tickles, Stevie — ohmygod, it's COLD."

 

"Buck! Quit actin' like a loon, I'm gonna cut your fuckin' arm off if you keep wiggling!"

 

"I CAN'T, it —" Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth. He threw his head back as he tried to repress his boisterous giggles, smacking hard against the wood paneling of the sink's cupboard.

 

"Jesus, are you _okay_?" Though Steve was loosely holding a metal shaving razor in one hand (the same hand that was coated in the cheap sticky shaving cream that always reminded him of the whipped kind), he still reached for the back of Bucky's head, white foam mixing with his brown waves.

 

It'd been an hour since they'd crammed themselves into the only bathroom of the four bedroom complex Steve and his mother shared with three other families, one of which had twin toddler daughters. Headache inducing, to say the least.

 

It wasn't often that everyone was out at once; most of the adults worked during the day, with his mom often out during the evening for her shifts at the hospital up the road, but usually at least one person was still home, whether it was one of the kids or Mr. Harris, who took daily afternoon naps on his lunch break.

 

So the fact that everyone was gone made this rare occasion even more worthwhile and important. Usually when Steve and Bucky wanted a bit of peace and quiet (though, not absolute peace, because if Rebecca was around, chaos was always sure to follow) they'd go to Bucky's home. They lived in a rented house with a backyard, had stairs and everything too. But, they didn't want to risk getting caught doing... this.

 

Bucky'd been sitting cross legged on the floor, his shirt tossed aside and bundled up in a corner of the room. Steve had originally been sitting in a matching position, but now he found himself straddling Bucky with a knee either side of his thighs, practically sitting in his lap.

 

He was wriggling around like a kid hyped up from downing ten bags of sugar (which, he could've been, have you seen how he drinks his coffee? More sugar than anything.) Steve wanted to be irritated with the situation, thus why he was faking the lamest pout he'd ever done in his life, that Bucky could totally see through. While he was a tad annoyed that he wouldn't even let him shave his arm at first and was taking so damn long, and made him start to worry that they'd run out of time to actually get started what they'd planned in the first place, he couldn't help but laugh with him — he was cute, and hey, Steve wanted to soak it all in and treasure it.

 

Steve had a towel wrapped around his shoulders, an older one discolored by fading bleach splotches splattered across it. It was mahogany in color, which made making an excuse easier if any of the ink had permanently stained it

 

"'m fine. Hurt like a bitch though," Bucky huffed a long breath out the side of his mouth, grin lazily sprawled across his face as he looked back at Steve. He brushed the back of his palm up the side of Steve's waist before he was holding him by the hips, thumbs rubbing against the cotton of his shirt.

 

His cheeks started to grow warmer, felt like his throat had gone scratchy (and he was half tempted to spring up and run his mouth under the faucet), and he couldn't help himself when he leaned closer, softly kissing those smiling lips.

 

Reaching upwards and behind them, he set the razor down on the sink's counter, wiping his hand off on his slacks (and then he winced, remembering the _towel_ ). He made a mental note to wash them later, preferably before his mom got home. Now that his fingers were cleaned off, he cupped the side of Bucky's neck, allowing his head to tilt partially to the side. "Wouldn't be getting hurt if you just, I don't know, didn't wiggle around like a moron."

 

"Stevie, it _tickled_. I can't help it."

 

He clicked his tongue, once then twice before licking across his front teeth and pressing it to the inside of his cheek. "How're we ever gonna get this done then if me touching you tickles that bad? You want me to stab you with the needle?"

 

"Depends where you're stabbing me."

 

"The eye."

 

"Ouch. Okay, yeah, _no_. I'll behave, Steve. Promise."

 

Steve tapped on Bucky's knuckles until his grip loosened; he took hold of him, raising their hands to eye level, between them both. "Pinky swear?" he asked as he wiggled his pinky at him, tauntingly so. That got Bucky rolling his eyes, nostrils flaring with a twitch of his nose. He eventually gave in though, like he always did, and grabbed his finger, twisting them together.

 

"Fine. Promise."

 

"Good boy," he leaned in for a second kiss before he pushed himself from Bucky (he heard him audibly whine, though low and quiet, but nonetheless he looked back at him with a smirk). "Don't be such a baby. I'll sit on your lap again if it makes you feel better — just lemme actually get the stuff so we can get started before anyone busts us."

 

"Alright. Hey, so uh, what're you even giving me?"

 

"Well," Steve looked at the plethora of supplies they gathered, spread out across the counter top. From the very cramped and even more so overflowing medicine cabinet, he grabbed a brown jar of rubbing alcohol along with a tin of antibacterial ointment; it was this goopy mixture that smelled strong of mint and doctor's office, but the smell always made him a little sentimental. Brought back countless memories of them rushing home from the playground after school, Bucky dabbing a pea size blot of the gunk onto Steve's cheek because some kid twice his size decided to give him a hearty beating (after much provoking from Steve though, he wasn't ever innocent during any of the scuffles he got himself in). "What'd you have in mind? Any kind of ideas?"

 

Setting the disinfectants down, he looked over everything else they had; a medium sized sewing needle with a tip sharp enough to pierce skin, laying atop a hastily ripped napkin, nicked from his mom's tailoring kit. Was from a pack of unopened needles, so it was brand new and ready to be dulled up and... used for intentions other than sewing a pretty dress. Besides that was a small glass bottle of black ink. Not the calligraphy kind, not the same sort of ink Steve used to outline his sketches; another stolen item, tattoo ink.

 

Tattooing was starting to become more of a recent trend that kept popping up in ads in the newspaper and select hobby magazines (there'd even been magazines dedicated solely to the hobby, Steve discovered). They'd been seeing more and more people walking around with colorful designs permanently stamped into their skin. Sure it was usually army men, specifically the navy guys from what Steve had seen, but there was this guy that was a senior at their school, Ronny something or other. Came into class early one morning to lift up his shirt, gloating about how his buddy tatted him up one Sunday in their garage. Of course right as he exposed his skin to the class, the teacher decided to walk in and immediately sent him to the principal's office, where he got more than a talking to from his parents.

 

Bucky'd been jealous though, and Steve could tell because he wouldn't shut up about the subject of tattoos. Always pointing them out whenever he'd seen one, dropping small hints every so often to Steve, saying, " _Wouldn't it be cool to, I 'unno, have one of your paintings on your skin forever_ ?" to which Steve would always scoff and say, " _not my_ own _, but maybe Van Gogh or something, sure_."

 

They'd always been rambunctious teenagers, getting into trouble and testing their limits with the law; they weren't strangers to trespassing parks and, once a graveyard, after hours. And they weren't entirely unfamiliar with the back of a cop car either (it'd only been one single time they'd been caught, sharing a beer by the river one evening, to which they were merely let off with a warning and escorted home by an understanding cop that said he'd once been in their place too). But, fuck, when Bucky suggested they steal a jar of ink from the new parlor that opened up downtown? Steve felt his stomach instantly churn.

 

The idea had sparked after a long conversation that, made it clear that Bucky wasn't just _thinking_ about tattoos anymore but _desired_ one. And, surprise surprise, he was going to make his artist friend _Steve_ do it for him.

 

" _It'll be fun, Stevie! Like painting on a live canvas_ ," he threw his arms in the air excitedly, which only got Steve to hang his head and groan. There was no way he could get himself out of this one.

 

So the plan was in place, and slowly but surely played out. Bucky told his mom they were going to go spend the day in the city, maybe grab a bite to eat and catch a live show or something. What he really meant was they'd stop by that parlor and Bucky would use his charisma to his advantage as he captivated the single artist in the store in conversation.

 

Steve'd never been more nervous in his life, glancing over his shoulder every five seconds to make sure the coast was still clear. He'd somehow weaseled his way into the back of the store and rummaged through the guy's supplies; he'd gotten a jar of black ink into his pocket and that was all. He didn't want to risk trying to grab a needle too or anything else.

 

He let out a long sigh of relief once they were five blocks away from the store, smacking Bucky multiple times in the chest as the other man did nothing but laugh.

 

" _Don't_ ever _make me do that again, jackass!_ ”

 

" _I'll pay you back, promise_."

 

" _You better. You owe me for all the shit you make me do for you, Barnes_."

 

Before he could start anything, he'd have to make sure the needle was sterilized. Not entirely sure what the best method was, he opted for burning it. Thus why there was a candlestick that'd fallen into the sink. He lifted it up and lit a match, watching as a flame slowly flickered to life. Pinching the needle between his thumb and pointer, he started to rotate the thing slowly — and then he winced, letting out a small yelp that got Bucky's eyes widening when the metal got too hot too quick.

 

"Um," Bucky was about to jump to his feet before Steve was gesturing at him with a clear of his throat. "Swear to God you get up and I'll scream. Don't move, you _promised_."

 

He raised his hands in defeat, slumping further. "Alright, alright. Uh, I don't know. What about a drawing of King Kong on the Empire State building or — like the kraken squid thing from _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?"_

 

Steve couldn't put his hands on his hips, or else he would've stabbed himself and he decided that wasn't worth it, so he opted for a sigh. He turned to look at him, lowering the needle and setting it back down on the napkin. The end had blackened a little, needed to wipe the soot off before he went about jabbing his best friend in the arm.

 

He unscrewed the plastic cap of the rubbing alcohol, dipping the needle in. "Think small, Buck. Probably can't do any overly fancy designs with a," he waved at the counter, "a sewing needle."

 

"Oh. Okay, uhm, what aboutttt," he put a finger to his mouth, started running his teeth over his skin. For some reason, neither of them had considered what Steve would be creating on him. Guess they never thought they'd get that far, to the point where it would actually happen. "Maybe a flying saucer? Or, could do a coupla stars on my shoulder? Or," then he snorted, "your initials."

 

"I'm not permanently putting my _initials_ on you."

 

"Awh, why not?" Steve couldn't tell if Bucky was actually upset by that, or if he was just putting on a show. He grabbed his shirt by the hem to form a small pocket, scooping up all of their collected items (except the needle, no, he carefully held that one). Putting out the candle with a short breath, he lowered himself onto the floor, making himself comfortable back in Bucky's lap. He dropped everything to their side, rearranging them in order. He pulled off the rubber stopper of the ink, taking in a shaky breath. He couldn't believe Bucky roped him into doing this. Well, no, he _could_ believe it, but rather, he couldn't believe the fact that he was _doing_ it.

 

"Why the hell would you want my initials on you?"

 

"Cause I love youuuu," Bucky puckered his lips and anticipated the flick Steve gave him to his cheek. But, before he could move his hand away, Bucky wrapped his fingers around his wrist and tugged him closer, jostling him. He angled his chin higher so he could get access to Steve's jaw, dragging his lips around the curve of the bone, flicking his tongue out in that way that got Steve chuckling.

 

"Stop _moving_ , asshole," Steve flattened his lips and bit the needle with his teeth, pressing his palm against his chest, pushing him back lightly. "I love you too."

 

"I know, Stevie," he beamed back.

 

"Okay," he mumbled, gripping the small piece of metal with his nails. Here we go. He dipped the tip into the ink and looked back towards the cleanly shaven part of Bucky's arm; upper bicep, from the most prominent bone in his shoulder to the small patch of freckles that were, he assumed, about five or six inches lower. It was a spot that could easily be hidden by a shirt, as long as Bucky gave up swimming bare skin from now on. "What're we doing?"

 

"Why's this such a hard decision? God, I don't know. _You_ pick."

 

" _Me_? Hell no, I don't want that much responsibility."

 

"Like I even care. I'll be happy with anything you do."

 

"Alright. So if I were to draw a penis on your arm..."

 

Bucky's eyes instantly narrowed, his brows falling. "Besides that."

 

Steve snorted. "Guess we could try the star thing? How many do you even want?" He stared at his soon no longer to be empty skin, trailing down the smooth area, which elicited a (much appreciated) shiver from Bucky.

 

"Should you uh, sketch out what you're gonna do first? Or are you free handing this?"

 

Steve looked at him blankly. _Huh_. He never thought about that and, he glanced down. He was so comfortable, he didn't want to have to get back up again and try scavenging for a pen. Grabbing the bottle of rubbing alcohol for a second time and the napkin, he tipped the jar upside down, dousing the paper in its liquids. The sudden cold wetness made Bucky almost jump, but he stopped himself the very second Steve bit his lip warningly.

 

"Think stars are easy enough to just freehand, Buck."

 

"Yeah, well, cause you're mister artist. Can't even draw a stick figure straight, lines get all squiggly and horrid."

 

"That's the beauty of practice," he shifted his weight towards Bucky's left side, mentally trying to imagine where the best place to start would be. "After drawing the same damn line for only two hundred hours, it'll maybe become a little less bent, and look more... like a line should."

 

" _Only_ two hundred."

 

"Mhm. Improvement not guaranteed though," he pinched Bucky's ear his with his free hand. Another sigh and he met his eyes; he could see the nervousness in them, feeling the vibrations coming from his body. "You sure you want me to do this?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"What's worrying you the most about it?"

 

Bucky shrugged. "The pain, I guess."

 

"You think it's gonna hurt a lot?"

 

" _Well_ , Steve," his lashes fluttered as he huffed out a gentle laugh; it wasn't intended to be demeaning, or mocking, but more so laughing at the obvious. "You're gonna be stabbing me in the arm, _repeatedly_. If it didn't hurt, I'd start to get a little concerned."

 

"If it starts to hurt too much though, you can just tell me. Pull on my shirt or, I don't know, yell at me to stop."

 

"Should we have a code word?"

 

"Yeah, sure. Probably would be smart. Like what?"

 

"Uh," Bucky swayed his head back and forth, to either side of his shoulders, "if I scream fuck, probably safe to say that you should stop."

 

That got Steve leaning forward, shaking his head against the nook of Bucky's neck before he was pushing their lips together, trying to catch his breath in between the reciprocated kisses. He even felt a tear or two escape their way down his cheeks.

 

"It wasn't _that_ funny."

 

"It really _was_."

 

"That good then? Our word for stopping is... _fuck_. That work?"

 

"That works," he rubbed their noses together with a wink. Going back to the spot he was hovering over earlier, he raised the needle above his skin, the tip very faintly touching his skin, leaving the smallest mark. He decided he'd do a cluster of five bold stars, lines connecting each point in the middle. The first star would start top of his shoulder and each would follow, filling the area. "Okay, you ready?"

 

Bucky reached for his other hand, that was now placed on the inside of Bucky's bicep, giving him a squeeze that made his heart flutter; he already had a heart condition but, Christ, Bucky never made it any better, always getting his pulse racing and thumping so hard he could taste it in his mouth.

 

"'m ready. I trust you."

 

"You probably shouldn't."

 

Bucky's face fell. "W-what do you mean?"

 

"I'm _kidding_ ," he leaned forward one last time before starting to kiss his cheek.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they'd left the gallery and found their way back to their apartment, neither of them were in any sort of mood to cook dinner, worn out by — coming face to face with everything they'd lost and could never have back. Not that Bucky wanted any of it back, per say, he was just happy to have Steve by his side, but it still hurt to see their entire lives sprawled out in front of them. Hurt to have to be _explained_ his life, instead of simply remembering it like a normal human being should've been able to.

 

Bucky threw himself across their couch, making grabby hands towards the plastic bags in Steve's hands. They'd gotten take out from a new burger place this time, decided to change up things a bit and not go for their usual places where they'd become friends with the delivery drivers.

 

Steve lifted up his feet, yanking Bucky's boots off (it wasn't a sign of love and endearment but instead Steve being totally grossed out by shoes on the furniture, always scolding Bucky if he wore his shoes indoors). He squished himself at the end of the sofa, pulling out the Styrofoam boxes from the bags and stacking them on the coffee table.

 

He handed Bucky his drink, a bottle of Coke. Bucky always loved Coca Cola, use to drink at least two a day, every day for six months until his dentist told him his teeth were going to rot away if he kept that up.

 

"Stevie," he cooed, the blond glancing his way.

 

"What, Buck?"

 

"You ever be open to trying that again?"

 

"Trying—" Steve's shoulders slumped as he quickly hung his head, breathing louder than he probably intended to. " _No_. No way."

 

"Yes way. C'mon, Steve," Bucky scrambled to sit up, scooting himself over to Steve, squeezing his shoulder. "It'd be fun. Could even get you a proper tattoo gun and everything."

 

"Oh my God, why _me_? Can't you go to someone that," he loosely gestured with an open hand, "knows what the hell they're doing? You know, a trained professional maybe?"

 

"Nah. Don't trust anyone else to do it but you."

 

"What would you even want? And don't say my initials."

 

"What about your shield?"

 

"My—"

 

Bucky nodded. "Or, maybe now you could do that King Kong thing."

 

Steve's chest puffed as he reached for the controller, flipping onto some channel. "We'll see."

 

* * *

 


	5. Reminiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rem·i·nis·cence  
> a story told about a past event remembered by the narrator.
> 
> \---
> 
> Some things Bucky couldn't wait to give up from his past; I.e. his murderous history, running around on foot and worrying about not having a secure place to rest his head at night, and so forth.
> 
> But, some things he also didn't want to let go of just yet. I.e. the countless notebooks he jotted the entirety of his life story in. Sure, he remembered these things now, for the most part, but there was always that fear in the back of his mind that it'd all be taken from him again.

* * *

 

 

Earlier last night, after Bucky'd decided he couldn't will himself back to sleep, no matter how many episodes of _The X Files_ he rewatched or how close he curled into Steve and tried to focus on his light snores, he forced himself out of bed to make a cup of coffee and unofficially start his day. He didn't want to be awake at four in the morning, nor did he want to be relying on coffee and energy drinks for the rest of the day, like he knew he'd have to be doing now, but he also just couldn't fall asleep.

 

Instead of feeling bad for himself and groaning internally about his struggles until he drove himself up a wall, he wanted to be productive — he showered, scrubbed down the floors in their kitchen (and even under the burners on their stove, for the first time in a month assumably by all the junk that'd built up in there), made a batch of pancakes and plated some for Steve when he woke up. All of that and, he pulled out his phone, clicking it on; it was seven o'clock. Great.

 

Normally around this time, Steve's alarm clock was ringing loud for everyone in the building to hear. But, sometimes on the weekend, he opted to take a day off from his usual morning jogs and sleep in. Unfortunately for Bucky, today was one of these days, and, that meant he wouldn't be up until nine or ten, at least.

 

With a physical groan this time, Bucky continued to keep himself occupied — he ran downstairs to the laundry room and washed all their towels, including a handful of Steve's shirts and lounge pants. He'd figured out how to work the radio on his phone, which was better than his iPod because he could listen to literally anything he could ever dream of and more, discovering new bands at that. He stretched for an hour and then laid on the floor completely still for half an hour more.

 

The sun was now peaking up and he was getting so restless, he wanted to cave and jump on the bed, shaking Steve until he finally woke up. That would be _rude_ though, he reminded himself, and Steve needs his beauty rest. Plus, he was a bit... unpleasant and grumpy when he was forcibly woken from sleep (as in, he'd smack you across the face with a pillow and shout obscenities at you until you left him alone, Bucky found that out the hard way when they were kids).

 

So now Bucky was being more... counterproductive as he made a complete mess of their living room, digging through the coat closet. Their apartment still needed some improvements but they'd made it their own; a cluster of wall hanging frames housing photos of him and Steve from their current day dates (them smiling into the camera, one where Steve was smooching a red in the face Bucky on the cheek), even got some of Steve's paintings up too. Their place was furnished with a theme of chocolate brown wood, black leather and navy; their couch was plush with a deep navy covering, paired with a dark coffee table that always stored a few books Steve'd been working on that month, and usually a candy dish specifically for Bucky.

 

Their closet though was the opposite. There weren't many of these brown moving boxes, but enough that they cramped up the corner of the small space and made the coats above them sit awkwardly. There were two boxes stacked ontop of each other, Bucky's name written across the side of them sloppily in marker. He didn't bring much with him when he came back to the states. Not like he even had anything in his apartment when he was living apart from Steve. Shitty mattress on the floor that had zero back support, a few blankets that he bought second hand and washed a million times before daring to use them, a handful of clothes that he'd gotten rid of years ago.

 

What he did bring with him though, that he wasn't ready to give up just quite yet: his journals. After Bucky'd weaseled himself away from Hydra, that's what he worked on — rebuilding himself from scratch. That dumb blond that he saved for reasons he knew, but couldn't quite comprehend... his face never left his thoughts, and so that's where he begun. He had a face to his name, and he used that to his advantage.

 

He didn't own a laptop himself so he frequented internet cafes, switching them up every other week or so, so no one got suspicious. That was a habit he still hadn't let go of; always looking over his shoulder and feeling like everyone in the room was whispering about him. He hated going to parties because of that, often times would cling to Steve's side and dig his nails so hard into his biceps there'd be marks.

 

It was like he was creating a thesis, about _Captain_ _America_. He'd printed off his Wikipedia page and would read whatever they had available at the library about him, which wasn't a ton but there were a few history books and Captain America comics that had been translated into Romanian. If he was lucky, he'd come across a copy in Russian. And if he was super lucky, he'd find the original, in English.

 

He'd sprawl across his mattress and stay up until five in the morning, indulging anything he could about this man that felt so familiar yet so distant to him. Then — that's when he saw _his_ name. He'd been sitting under a little lamp he'd bought at a market a few days ago, flipping through one of those American history books, licking his fingers as he took in a sharp breath, his hands going numb. Everything felt cold and his eyes grew heavy, and his mind stammered to a halt.

 

When he'd gone to that Cap exhibit in DC, that was the first time he'd ever seen a photo of himself. He wanted to stay longer, actually read the description they'd written about, apparently himself, but the feeling of nausea only grew worse and saliva started to build on the back of his tongue. He had to get himself out of there and catch his breath. Didn't matter anyways because that's when he'd found himself in deep shit for the hundredth time that month.

 

As he'd been leaving the Smithsonian, a jackass bumped into his shoulder. It'd been a week and a half since he'd pulled Steve from the river. A week and a half since he'd showered, a week since he'd had a proper meal, and three days since he'd actually slept. On his feet and panicking over what he'd do so he wouldn't fall back in Hydra's grasps. He didn't want to stay in America, didn't think he could. But, he was sick of constantly having to be on the run. He was tired. He was hungry. He longed for company and normality.

 

Normality was the last thing life was going to allow for him though as he found himself with his arms tied behind his back, arm disabled and a shock collar biting into his skin. That guy he'd bumped into wasn't some regular dill hole. Was the same prick that constantly had his way with him; anytime he was a bit pent up and stressed, he preferred to use Bucky as a human punching bag instead of letting off a bit of steam at the gym like any regular person. And, when he was pent up in _other_ manners... Bucky was trained not to fight back. He didn't know the word no, he didn't know _how_ to run away.

 

He'd been pushed onto his knees more times than he could remember, had that guys lips all over him, fingers forced inside him.

 

" _You've done this before, haven't you_ ," Bucky could hear his voice in that exact tone he used, demeaning and like he was talking to a child. He fisted through his hair as Bucky took his dick into his mouth, tears wetting his eyes but he forced them to stay _only_ in his eyes; he didn't want to imagine what would happen if they escaped down his cheeks, the punishment he'd have to endure.

 

He doubted anything could be worse than this.

 

This guy, that he had such hatred for, Brock fucking Rumlow, was again dragging him by his hair into some holding room of Hydra's. Why couldn't they let him go? What was there to lose? Was this their revenge for him for failing? Failing a mission for the first time in fifty years?

 

His mind had been wiped, but this time, it was different. He didn't forget, anything. The pain was ten times worse. He sobbed, he screamed, he yelled for _Steve_. The second his name left his lips, he was met with Brock's hand, tight around his neck, choking him until he couldn't even dare to speak.

 

They tried to control and use him again. Tried to make him that blank robot he was once. Never worked though, and so that's when he finally settled on a plan. Wouldn't stop until he killed each and every last of these bastards. He didn't _want_ to kill — he didn't want to hurt anyone. But, did he have any other choice? Not like these scumbags deserved to be alive anyways.

 

The gunshots rang loud in their underground secret hideaway; it was like this industrial kind of place, where all the rooms were made of brick but there were sheets of metal screwed to the walls. The cement floors had blood stains that no one ever bothered to clean up. He knew where every room was, knew how to access the gun cabinets and control panels to shut off the cameras.

 

Eighty six men he killed, except the one he let get away. How he wanted to snap Brock in half like a twig, make him feel the fear he made Bucky feel. But for some reason, his hands shook and he hesitated.

 

Brock was smirking at him with reddened teeth. He wasn't fighting back, but instead dogging him on. " _Do it_ ," he growled. Bucky couldn't, and so he didn't. Let him fall to the floor as he left.

 

He'd racked up enough cash from all the corpses he left behind there to fly to Serbia and put down payment on an apartment for thirteen months. He got a job, working at a fish market. Bought a few things for his place and some new clothes. Got his haircut, shaved and showered for the first time in forever (the water against his skin made him flinch and almost cry out. All he could see was Steve's bruised face and feel his clothes sticking to his body). He didn't have much to live on and was scraping by, but it would do. For now.

 

 _'James Buchanan Barnes'_ aka Bucky Barnes aka Captain America's best friend and sidekick. That's who he was, he learned. It felt weird, typing his own name into Google, but he needed help, jumpstarting his brain. He prayed his mind wasn't damaged enough that the memories would be lost forever, but he also didn't have much faith in them returning either.

 

The first time he had a memory, it came to him in a dream, which didn't help with him trying to figure out if what he remembered was factual or wishful thinking. The next day, he'd picked up a set of three journals and a bundle of pens. Nothing fancy, just 150 pages of lined paper.

 

There were three journals, so he labeled them each; Happened, Not sure and Dreams. Anytime he got a memory, didn't matter if he was in the middle of wrapping up a purchase for someone at work or he was in the middle of cooking spaghetti for the third time that day. He always kept a piece of folded paper in his pocket so he could write down whatever the memory was and figure it out later.

 

Him and Steve lived on the same street, would hang out with each other every day and were practically attached at the hip. Broke a vase in the Barnes' household once because they decided to toss a baseball back and forth indoors, even though Bucky's dad warned them not to. Luckily he didn't get too mad; Bucky's mom though gave them quite a talking to. She was calm at first until Bucky tried to blame it on his baby sister — that was real. That definitely happened.

 

Him and Steve snuck on the back of a ferry and hitched a free ride to Staten Island where they lingered round for a day and Steve ate one too many hot dogs — that could've been real, but it seemed like something he could've easily dreamed of too. So, he put that in his list of memories he was unsure about.

 

Steve had Bucky pinned down to his mattress, hands above his head with Steve's slender fingers wrapped around his wrists. It was sometime in the evening, a dimming orange washing over Steve's pale complexion like he was a canvas. Steve was looking down at Bucky with half lidded eyes, his bare skin flushed under an abundance of freckles. He was out of breath, near panting, but it wasn't the same kind of labored breathing he had when he was having an asthma attack. Steve leaned closer and closer until their lips were touching and Bucky'd trailed his fingers up his spine, his skin too smooth and soft under his touch.

 

" _I love you, Bucky,_ " Steve said and it made Bucky, the present day Bucky, blink hard. No, that couldn't be right. He wrote that in the dream journal instantaneously, underlined it with a red marker.

 

But then, he'd get more memories like that, before all of his memories consisted of Steve pushed into his side and their hands interlocked. Steve falling sound asleep on his chest after Bucky'd gotten back from a long day at work. Steve tugging on Bucky's sleeve and leading him down the halls of Bucky's childhood house until they were out of sight of his family. Steve's arms wrapped around his neck as he pushed himself up on his tippy toes, kissing him long and hard.

 

He eventually crossed out the first thing he'd written about him and Steve in the dream journal, smiling to himself bittersweet as he moved it to the memories he could safely say were real. That's what inspired him to find his way back, back to Steve. He still loved him, he always would.

 

So those were the notebooks Bucky'd found himself looking through. It hurt, seeing how crudely written some of them were because he knew he'd been in a hurry to get them out. Sometimes there were smaller notes or doodles in the margins.

 

"What's all that?"

 

Bucky had his back pressed against the side of their kitchen island, his knees tucked to his chest, journal balancing on top. He looked up at Steve; he was still just waking up, heel of his palm rubbing against his eye.

 

"Morning sleepy head.”

 

“Mornin’.”

 

“You get any rest?”

 

“Mhm.” Steve pointed to the notebook in Bucky's hands. “Whatsit?”

 

“It's uh, things I found in the hoarding closet," he waved towards the front door.

 

"S'not a hoarding closet. Just stuff we haven't gone through yet," he stretched his arms behind his head, yawning as he walked past Bucky. He could hear Steve snort when he saw the coffee (that was now cold, but, whatever) and plate of pancakes Bucky'd left for him with a note.

 

" _Exactly_. So, hoarding closet," he called back. Steve, mug in one hand and plate in the other, lowered himself onto the floor besides Bucky. He looked at him, nose scrunching. "Ain't you gotta warm that up?"

 

"The pancakes, or the coffee?"

 

"Both."

 

"Eh," he shrugged, taking a long sip.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "No uh, these are the journals I use to write stuff down in. The memories I got."

 

"Yeah?" Steve set the plate down, reaching in front of Bucky to pick up a red colored notebook. "May I?"

 

He nodded. "I don't mind."

 

Steve looked at the front, his brows raising as he took another sip of coffee. "What's this mean?" He asked, tapping against the fading words.

 

"Oh, yeah. Uh, I organized my memories and put them into categories. Stuff I think really happened, what I thought I just dreamed of, and things I was positive I made up."

 

Steve hummed, opening the book a few pages in. Steve was holding one of the first ones Bucky'd written in, full of memories he knew were true. Taped to the page that creased in unnatural ways (Bucky cried a few times, or a bunch of times rather, while jotting these things down and blurred the ink a little, so what) was a picture of Steve. It was one of the photos he'd found of him on Wikipedia, from when he'd enlisted and was still a tiny thing. The tape was starting to yellow and peel in the corners.

 

He flipped to the next page, and for the next ten minutes, they sat there reading and taking in everything. Bucky'd closed the one he was looking at, opting to rest his cheek on Steve's shoulder and watch what he was doing; there were things that Steve had read out loud that made them both laugh, and then there were things that Bucky asked him to skip over.

 

Steve nearly choked on his coffee when he flipped the page again and saw... Well, Bucky seriously _didn't_ want a single memory to slip by. So, when he'd remembered the first time him and Steve had had sex, he wasn't going to not write it down. Sure, he'd felt embarrassed by it (like how Steve was acting right now), but he would've regretted it if he'd decided to forget about it. All of those little clues, memories of intimacy, locked it in his brain that he was _in_ love with Steve. And the love was reciprocated.

 

"Yeah, uh," Bucky started slipping his finger under the page, ready to flip it. "We can skip this one," until Steve pulled on his wrist.

 

"Wait. Lemme just— skim it," he reached for his mug again but then retracted his hand, deciding to scratch at the back of his neck. He looked at Bucky with a mischievous grin. "I'm curious, is all."

 

"Okay, Stevie. Whatever you say," he flicked the tip of his nose. Their first time could be summed up in one word: problematic. Bucky'd had one serious (or as serious as you could be when you're a teenager) girlfriend before Steve, and Steve'd been forced to kiss a girl once in the fifth grade under some mistletoe (but, Steve hardly counted that as a real kiss because it was a quick peck to the side of her lips and he only did it because peer pressure, and Christmas spirit, blah blah). Both of them were inexperienced when it came to intimacy with others, let alone another guy.

 

It took them ages to get past the point of laughing every time they kissed, let alone comfortable enough to hold hands when they were relaxed at home. Sex was something both of them thought about, obviously, but never wanted to bring up. Plus, if anyone found out they'd been in an ongoing relationship since Steve's junior year, they'd already be in a buttload of trouble.

 

The first time they'd had sex in the modern ages wasn't any different either than their _official_ first time. It was actually _more_ uncomfortable— there was a nervousness flooding back that neither of them had felt since Bucky'd first met Steve when he was six. He felt like everything he did had to be perfect, over exaggerated and like he had to show off to Steve. He wanted to be sickeningly gentle, tease his lips and ghost over his nipples until goosebumps formed and the hair on his arms raised. He wanted to be too good to Steve to prove himself worthy of having him.

 

Steve was sitting on the end of their bed in the towers, his hand interlocked with Bucky's and other gripping over his ass. They'd never switched positions before, never even thought about it when Steve was so small (in height, that is). But, Bucky wanted to be on the receiving end now. He needed to feel Steve, like _really_ feel him. Steve kept arguing with him that it was fine, he didn't mind, he liked it, but all Bucky did was shake his head and instruct him to sit down.

 

Of course he still got horny, even in his shitty little apartment that had barely any heating in the cold winters. He jerked off a few times a week, usually in the shower in the evenings. At one point, that's when a glimmer of an idea sped through his head; he wanted to know what that sensation felt like, of having something in you and fucking you, at your own pain. Not painfully forced. Body relaxed and wanting.

 

He'd lathered up his fingers in soap, hesitated near ten minutes before he swallowed down his thoughts and forced himself to just do it. He wanted Steve to fuck him, when he eventually made his way back to him. He knew that.

 

But, what he didn't know was _how_ he was going to get over this debilitating fear that would wash over him anytime he got so much as half an inch inside himself. He'd remembered the times he'd been used there, clear as daylight. The times he'd been bent over a hard table and forced to take it like a lifeless doll, bite through the rough pain and move on. It would completely knock him out of his hazy arousal, sometimes lasting days. He always had the urge to crawl under his blankets and call his mom. He just loathed for comfort, for interaction with another human being that wasn't awful.

 

He didn't have any friends in Serbia. He only spoke with his boss when he needed to, exchanged fewer than ten words with everyone he rang out. When he'd find himself at a bar, he was alone. Too on edge to approach anyone, bolting the second someone tried to approach him.

 

He'd been so lonely, his fantasies of finding Steve again were the only things that got him through his days.

 

When the moment had finally come that he was seated on Steve's lap, licking across his teeth, feeling as he stretched him and filled him to the point that it made his body feel like he'd been set on flames, and when Steve’d ran his hands down his ribs that peaked out too much for what his natural build was… he finally let himself sigh. In peace.

 

He felt _okay_ , for once.

 

"This is like reading a really bad romance novel. Why'd you write it all out like— like a story?"

 

"I 'unno. Sometimes it was easier that way, going with my train of thought and what not."

 

"Mm, I see. Also, that rhymed," then Steve placed his finger under a sentence, trailing down a light blue line as he started reading, "'I knew I was really nervous because I wanted this to be _special_ for Stevie. But, he was so nervous himself he tripped taking off his socks.' Did I really do that?"

 

"Yep. Fell flat on your face, had to get up and throw you on the bed myself. You," he started chuckling, letting out a content sigh as he rubbed against Steve, "you busted your lip and the whole thing was a mess. But of course it'd be, cause we were always a mess."

 

"Still are."

 

"Understatement of the year."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Strolling through the cereal aisle at an overpriced grocery store that used the excuse of having healthier, better made foods as a reason to charge six dollars for a bag of chips, Bucky leaned his elbows against the cart that'd been making too much noise for the past five minutes. He stopped, looking at the wheel to see if he'd somehow broken it but, with a sigh he kept following behind Steve.

 

They'd lost track of time earlier, reminiscing for hours over the journals — once they were piling everything back into the boxes in the closets (still weren't going to move them apparently), Steve had suggested an idea so wild it got Bucky staring at him with his mouth hanging wide open, lost on what to say.

 

" _How about you write a book_?"

 

" _A... a book_?" he finally stammered out. Steve nodded.

 

" _Yeah, book from your perspective. Buck, I've talked enough about my side of the story, the shit I went through. No one's ever got to hear it from_ your _voice though._ "

 

" _I 'unno, Steve_." Bucky never thought himself as a bad writer or anything. He actually considered doing that as a profession when he was younger, becoming a full time pulp writer or something. But, he decided to trade those dreams in to focus on his boxing instead. Didn't have enough time to struggle three jobs and _two_ hobbies.

 

" _Why would anyone want to read that? Everyone knows me as your sidekick. They only care about the main guy, not the main guy's lackee_."

 

Steve groaned, putting both his hands on Bucky's shoulders. " _You ain't my lackee_."

 

" _Not what everyone else thinks_."

 

" _Then_ tell _them otherwise_."

 

Bucky still wasn't sure. Sure, the idea sounded interesting in theory, and now that they had a laptop, he could write up something a lot quicker than doing it by hand, or typewriter. Right now though, he was more focused on getting enough stuff for the rest of the week and leaving. Bucky always got annoyed pretty quickly when they went shopping. He always blamed the bright lights though, gave him the beginnings of a headache.

 

"Steve," Bucky said, loud enough for him to hear. Steve spun around to look at him.

 

"What's up?"

 

He looked over at the options of cereal they had these days; seemed like hundreds and Bucky didn't understand the need for so many different types. Why wasn't plain good enough anymore? He was a hypocrite though, because he reached for a box of something that was a healthier version of Cap'n Crunch (this one had marshmallows too), tossing it in the cart.

 

"You said you were gonna call Nat earlier. Are you still..." he trailed off, sucking in his cheeks, biting his lower lip.

 

"I sent her a text and she told me she'd get back to me before the end of the day. Just waiting on her, bud," Steve rounded closer to Bucky, throwing his arm around him, kissing the side of his head

 

"Did she say if she had any news? Or, good news, for that matter?"

 

"No. You know Nat, always vague with everything she says. I'm hoping it won't be much longer."

 

"Sorry, I don't mean to keep asking — just really wanna see her."

 

"I know you do, honey. It's okay, I get it. I'd be the same way if I thought my mom was still alive. Or, well, I guess I _was_ the same way when we were looking for you. Sam's got the patience of a saint, I tell ya. Don't know how he put up with me."

 

"Bless his heart. You _can_ be fuckin' annoying."

 

Steve smacked him across the chest. "And you can be a goddamn asshole."

 

"Tell me something I didn't already know."

 

"I love you?"

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Know that one too. But, for the record, I love you too Stevie."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Buck," Steve walked out of their bedroom, phone in his hand and screen still brightly lit. Bucky was putting things into their fridge, balling up the plastic grocery bags to toss them under their sink.

 

"Huh?" he said absentmindedly, unscrewing the cap off their brand new milk to take a swig of it, almost spitting it out at Steve's disapproving grunt.

 

" _Seriously_?"

 

"Thirsty." Bucky put it away, closing the fridge to lean against it. "She say anything?"

 

"Yeah, she did. Do you," he gestured towards their couch, "want to sit down, maybe?"

 

"I can't stand?"

 

"Honey, I think it'd be better if you weren't."

 

"...you're making me nervous, Steven."

 

"C'mon," he reached for Bucky's hand, tugging him towards the living room. He slid his phone into his pocket, falling down next to Bucky. He shoved him closer until Bucky was leaning into his side.

 

"She dead?"

 

"No — no, Buck. It's good news. It's all good," Steve kissed the top of his head, lingering there. "We got approval to go see her next week. She's your sister, she's still mostly there though sometimes out of it Nat said, and... you're going to see your sister again, Bucky."

 

* * *

 


End file.
